Destinations

After having being on the road and in six different cities over the past two weeks, I've learned a thing or two. Of course, I've had more crammed schedules in the past exploring the Pacific Rim (eight cities in a week?) but none of it has ever been quite as work-oriented or quite as alone. So, in the midst of this seemingly lonely, busy time, here are some of the things I've grown to appreciate:

1. Sleep, whether it is 3 in the Chicago morning and you're punching your pillow because you have to wake up in 3 hours, or it is 6 in the evening after a busy day in Cleveland and you still have to talk, of all things, at a reception in your hotel. You also develop an incredible tendency to find it almost anywhere - on the plane, in the limo, or during a conversation about the Nigerian economy.

2. Unique hotel rooms, because a snakeskin couch or automatic blinds may just provide that end-of-the-day kicker that a predictable room can't. If you're gonna be having one-night stands with one nightstand, then they might as well be enjoyable.

3. People, or strangers, rather, who, if you allow them, will come into your life and change them forever - if only for a fleeting instant. I wonder where they are now, that Hawaiian army-brat family-man taxi driver who worked for Cisco in the Soviet Union, that girl from Atlanta learning to accept her identity, that bond-trading real-estate investor who went to his first interview in a red suit and cowboy boots...

4. Frequent flyer miles, which, I think, have already allowed me to earn a free flight or two over just these past few weeks.

You know, I think I'm going to have to go watch Up in the Air again. I think I know why I liked it so much now.

It's Just You & the Universe

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen."

Paulo Coelho, over a hundred years later, resurrected this very idea in The Alchemist: "Quando você quer alguma coisa, todo o universo conspira para que você realize o seu desejo."

And how true. Everything is beyond our control - and yet, everything is within our control. Oftentimes, this is reserved for dreams that we might dedicate every birthday cake candle to, dreams that we might pray for even if we're not religious, dreams that we try oh-so-hard to fall asleep back to. And of the effect the universe has on such dreams, I am an unshakable believer. If you wish with all your soul to know true happiness, it will find you, even if it is in the least expected way in a darkened apartment on the 20th floor of a building in Shanghai.

But sometimes, you're not seeking such heavy dreams. Sometimes you just push your hopes and emotions to the edge of the cliff, if only for a moment, and whisper a quick prayer that you will fly and not, well, tumble and fall. Even these dreams, I am quickly coming to learn, are within the grasp of the universe. If you don a red jersey and scream until your head goes numb wishing for the Hong Kong soccer team to win the gold medal match in the East Asian games, they will win, whether it is by some blade of grass, gust of wind, or simply the willpower of forty thousand fans flying a gigantic Hong Kong flag around the stadium and carrying a wave eight times around the stadium as the spotlights shine on into the night.

And at times, you will look for something much smaller. At times, you will look for something simply because it will make you smile, and even if you don't find it, not a drop of rain will fall - but it's better if you do, because the sun will shine just a tad brighter. Even these transitory dreams, I am beginning to suspect, can and will be influenced by the universe. If you suddenly remember the story of some guy who had once bought something on some promotion that gave him loads of frequent flyer miles, that story will find you, even if searching haphazardly fails to produce any results, and you decide to watch Punch-drunk Love for the first time without reading about it beforehand for no particular reason an hour later, only to find that the frequent flyer miles story you were thinking of was actually recreated in that. very. movie.

Life is wonderful. Everything happens for a reason, even if the reasons aren't abundantly or initially clear, and seemingly bad things can lead to good things, seemingly good things can lead to great things, seemingly great things lead to amazing things, and amazing things make for an amazing life.

But at the end of the day, when the flights have all landed, when all the songs have been sung, when all is said and done, all that matters is that

Everything will be alright.

(*Edit: If you want the Canadian men's hockey team to win Olympic gold in Vancouver, they will win.)

The Station

I could be sleeping right now, or eating a potato (I have seven pounds of raw potatoes - no other food, just potatoes), or brushing my teeth. But there's something about the predawn hour, lulled by the soulful crooning of Adam Levine, that causes casual observations over the past few weeks to conspire and strike me with a sense of wonderment, curiosity, pensiveness...

Everything looks the same. Two seemingly identical pictures, placed side-by-side mere months apart, and you are to spot the differences. This guy cusses now, whereas his mouth used to be spotless. That girl does not wear makeup anymore - or at least not as noticeably. And everyone, everyone looks older - as if the weight of the world slowly crushes down upon the shoulders of youth, a little a day, until the mirror gives way to the tragedy of Dorian Gray...but no, that would be fiction.

So bravo, soldier, you have noted the fall of the world, the embodiment of maturity, responsibility, time. But what does it all mean? Where have you been, darling, where are you going?

The soap dish in my bathroom slides ever so slowly, unnoticeably along a slippery trail of its own creation, from its perch beside the faucet and towards the sink. One day it will collide with the floor of the basin, releasing the Dove from the plastic cage - at which point I will simply place the soap back into the dish, and the dish back in its rightful place beside the faucet.

Make that six pounds of potatoes.

Twenty Ten

2009 was terrific. I did it, I grew. Took the me which had taken 2008 to tear down and rebuild, and kicked it into the corporate world, gave it goals, flew it across the globe (one more time). And although it took a while before pieces started falling into place, fall into place they did. I imagine a lizard must feel utterly phenomenal after shedding its old skin.

But the past is written, and now, with this metamorphosed soul, 2010 looks blindingly bright. I won't need to go globetrotting in search of this ineffable something anymore, because, somewhere along the way - between witnessing something so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes, and realizing something so awe-inspiring that I spent months thinking about it - I found this something, and it's nothing short of miraculous. Of course I'll still run around the world. That's just who I am, and each passing year, with its discoveries and lessons, only serves to remind me. But now I do this not for the sake of searching for a missing piece, but as a means of traveling down the road to fulfillment. You know what, I don't know. I can't explain it, but I guess sometimes I don't have to. It all just comes together, and life just is so damn beautiful, and oh..

2010 is going to be great, and my vague goal for this year is to lay down some new tracks and refurbish some old ties. Time to get going. Good day, and good luck to everyone.

On the Last Day of Christmas

The angel stood faintly in the glow that filtered in from the streetlight. He turned the statue just a little, so its glory could be better illuminated in the store window. It was almost closing time, and this would be their first Christmas Eve without a sale. Well, his first Christmas Eve without a sale. The pottery store was his alone now.

Outside it was drizzling lightly. He glanced up at the clock and noted the time, 7:22. It wasn't likely that a customer would walk in demanding clay figurines during the next thirty-eight minutes, and besides, it was already dark out. Tucking his scarf under his arm, he struggled into his suit jacket and switched the lights off. They went off, one section at a time; click, click, click. He felt the cold the instant he stepped outside, and knotted his scarf before locking the front door.

Beneath the streetlight, he tucked his hands in his pockets and squinted down the street while wetting his chapped bottom lip. He couldn't see much in the dark, rainy vastness. Maybe it would be better to find shelter first. Buttoning his jacket, he turned in the opposite direction and headed for the park.

He flicked his cigarette and a few ashes flittered like snowflakes to the wet sidewalk. Hunched over on a park bench, he studied his sleek dress shoes, their delicate laces and the beads of water that slid slowly down the sides. The branches of a willow tree swayed gently overhead, drooping down to create a dry sanctuary, but every so often, a heavy drop would slither through the branches and onto his suit, weaving wet impressions of the city among the blue pinstripes.

He glanced up, wrinkling his forehead, and took a drag. All around the tree, the rain kept falling.

The oak trees in the park were decorated with strings of lights, he noted. Stamping out his cigarette, he stood up and walked over to the nearest lighted tree. Up close, the bulbs seemed less festive, their filaments struggling to inject life into the falling night. Then he noticed a lone, darkened bulb that had resigned, descended into eremitism. "Come on, it's Christmas," he whispered as he flicked the bulb. It wouldn't quite be Christmas without this little bulb, he thought. With a sputter, the bulb flickered and shone once more.

He stepped back, looked down at the row of trees, all lighted in their holiday glory, and smiled. Then, tossing his head back, he laughed as the drizzle continued. "Come on! It's Christmas!!" he shouted, raising his hands to the sky. Turning to face the direction from whence he had came, he gave a light shrug and ran down the street, out of the park, past his pottery store, and into the dark, rainy vastness. As he ran, the streetlights came into view to illuminate his path, and it didn't seem quite so vast anymore.

He ran until he reached a white door, with the sounds of laughter and singing seeping through its cracks. There was a wreath hanging on the door, and, in the middle, a clay angel. His clay angel. Their clay angel.

Taking a deep breath, he undid his scarf and knocked. The carols continued uninterrupted and he stood there, dripping, shivering, ecstatic, crazy. He couldn't wait any longer and reached for the door, only to find it unlocked. As it slowly swung open, crowds of people, dressed in their holiday sweaters and gulping eggnog and mulled wine from frosted glasses, came into view - but he didn't notice any of them.

She wasn't standing under any mistletoe, but he didn't need any excuses. It was Christmas.